


Jacuzzi

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dominance, Dry Humping, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 04:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4125949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tauriel doesn’t take her leave in time, and so she gets in the jacuzzi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jacuzzi

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for Laike Armante’s “Thranduil invites the captain of the guard to bathe with him after a sweltering day of heat. Based upon the Behind the Scenes clip in which Evangeline says "Should I take my leave now, or get in the jacuzzi?" and Lee follows with "Get outta here, or get in that jacuzzi."” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=21735915#t21735915).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

When the sun is as sweltering as this, Tauriel answers to her king at the end of every shift, just in case he should have need of anything. Occasionally, he has her bring him cold wine, or she’ll send Meludir to fan him. Every so often, he asks how his favourite elk is doing, and Tauriel will run a messenger to the stables, quicker than anyone else could’ve. She’s the captain of his guards and the highest ranking of his servants, and she serves her king in whatever way she can, above and beyond the call of duty.

Tonight, she can see from her first step into the throne room that he doesn’t occupy the grand, far off dais, raised over the open pit. She’s directed to the pools below, and she walks swiftly down the twisting halls, following the trail. She’ll be replaced shortly by Feren, and he’ll likely seek her to ask what’s been done and what’s left to do. He’ll have to chase her down like she does their king. Thranduil has no such schedules and wanders where he wishes, leaving wild goose hunts in his wake. 

She spends too long looking for him, but finally comes to the telltale sign of two of her guards stationed outside a door. She hesitates to enter, but they don’t stop her, which means he’s given no special instructions for privacy. Usually, her job gives her run of the kingdom, save for where his word says otherwise or, perhaps, his personal chambers. 

Twisting the wooden handle, Tauriel creaks it slowly open. She isn’t stopped, and so she slips inside, the rounded, wooden cavern lit up with candles. For a small portion of the room, tall windows are carved out to let in the light of the setting sun. The heat of it follows, but despite that and the fire, she can feel the pleasant coolness of the nearby water. The floor is raised into a circular basin, where natural rivulets let in a flurry of the river, let it swirl about, and carry it back out again. The result is cool water with constant pressure, big enough for half a dozen elves to sit in comfortably. 

Only Thranduil occupies this one. No other elf would dare, except, perhaps, his son. Tauriel can only be grateful that he isn’t present. For all the things she doesn’t feel for Legolas, she can’t help but notice that he’s grown into an exceptionally handsome prince. And right now, another perfect sight might topple her. 

Thranduil alone is quite enough. He’s always beautiful, of course—he’s an Elven king, and he looks every bit of it. But out of his robes, his alluring body is taken to new heights. He’s slumped against the side, his arms casually draped along the sides of the pool, the water lapping at his chest just beneath his rosy nipples. His broad, flat breast is taut and smooth, pale and glistening with tiny beads of sweat—they cling to him everywhere. His head is tilted back, his long, white-blond hair cascading elegantly down the side. His chiseled face, so undeniably _gorgeous_ , is relaxed and flushed, lips slightly parted and perspiration evident on his brow. His crown is in the corner of the room, atop a table bearing candles and his robes, more candles and towels tucked into little indents in the wall. Tauriel’s been here once or twice before, but never with such temptation sitting in the center. 

She opens her mouth only to avert her eyes. The bubbles obscure the view inside the tub, but she can’t help but imagine what lies beneath. She’s only seen the naked body of her king in her dreams and fantasies, and the peak she gets is just as lovely as she’d guessed. She says, voice strained, “I apologize for interrupting, my lord. I came to ask if you have need of anything?”

Thranduil’s voice drawls, languid and deep, “Nothing.” A flicker of movement draws her eyes back to him; he waves his hand in dismissal. His eyes are half lidded, gaze on the ceiling, carved into a mural of leaves. When he breathes, she can see the slight shift of his throat, the subtle rise of his chest. He’s almost unbearably _sensual_ sometimes, without any effort at all. 

It takes her a second too long to bow her head in acceptance. She turns towards the door, only to have him bluntly say, “Tauriel.” She stops instantly. Hearing her name come from his perfect lips almost makes her shiver. For whatever other flaws she might find in him, he’s irresistible like this. 

She can’t help but look over her shoulder, taking every chance to observe him that she can. She finds him looking squarely at her, gaze as hot as the summer air. He purrs, “You may join me, if you like.”

Tauriel’s lips part, but no words come out. She turns half towards him, at first wondering if it’s a joke, although he doesn’t have that sort of sense of humour. Then she thinks she must have heard wrong, but she can’t imagine what else he might’ve said. He continues to watch her, casual and yet intense. Finally, she dips her chin to her chest, looking down at her feet to insist, “I... I am not worthy, my lord.”

Thranduil snorts. He would be the first to tell her that; she knows his opinion of the classes. He doesn’t deny it but replies, “You are what I say you are. And I have decided that I would not mind your company.” In a state of shock, Tauriel stands stiffly still for the next few seconds, waiting for the catch. 

But one doesn’t come. He doesn’t repeat himself, and Tauriel is held in limbo, wanting and yet nearly petrified. She’s always longed for a moment like this, but now that it comes, it feels too surreal to seize. Quieter, tantalizing, he assures her, “You may join me. I will not repeat myself again.”

It isn’t a command. It’s an invitation. But she tells herself it’s an order from her king, because that makes it so much easier to move. She doesn’t want to act a fool and reach for what she can’t have, but if she pretends that her duty requires her to join him, she can will her fingers up to the front of her tunic. She didn’t come prepared for this, but her clothes are made to withstand water, like all of them. Yet she would make an even bigger fool of herself to slip in fully dressed. She nimbly steps out of her boots, and draws open her tunic, the green sleeves slipping down her shoulders. A part of her wants him to _look_ , to take some interest in her body the way she does of his, but he looks respectfully aside. There’s something particularly _sinful_ about stripping in front of her king, and Tauriel luxuriates in that moment, until she’s standing in a pool of fabric, only her thin panties and bra remaining. She chose small, thin garments for today, held at the sides and over her shoulders with mere twine, because even to immortal skin, this whether is stifling. She takes another moment to breathe, and then she steps forward, until she’s at the lip of the pool. 

He glances back at her. Now his eyes take her in, sweeping from her open lips down the pale slope of her breasts, along her lithe stomach to her hips, down her thighs. She looks at him just as much, although the movement of the water obscures his body below his breast. What she sees is enough. If she could, if she had the power, she would change so many of his policies. Yet she would still give herself to him completely, and he’s the one her mind always goes back to, in the dead of night, when daydreams just like this pervade her thoughts. 

He curls his fingers in, beckoning her closer. Tauriel lifts her leg over the side, dipping her toes into the cold water. It’s a delicious relief compared to the broiling heat all around her, and the deeper she sinks, the better she feels. She slips inside the bath with as much grace as she can manage, finding a ledge around the brim to sit. When she sits up straight, the water licks along the bottom of her breasts, turning the thin material stretched across them a darker green and making it cling to her skin. Her panties are already stuck in around her folds. There’s no patch of colour over him that denotes the same coverings, but he so often wears white and silver, which would blend right in with the bubbles cascading over his milky skin. 

There’s nothing Tauriel can say. His posture remains as languid as it always is, so very artful, but she stays at attention. Her hair sweeps over her back and down the side of the tub, just the two sections tucked before her ears trailing down her front and parting around her breasts, the very ends dipped into the water. The sensation of it swirling about her and the bubbles licking at her flesh is a delicious one, one she savours. She rarely has time for such luxuries, and even if she did, she’ll likely never have such fair company again. She tries to memorize it, even as the weight of his gaze stays on her. She can’t quite meet it. She’s always been strong, even to him. But this is a very different thing that goes beyond the call of duty, and she doesn’t dare risk ruining this moment. 

The silence is difficult. It’s a struggle not to look at him, openly ogle him, take in every subtle line and curve that makes up the most handsome man in all of Middle Earth. She may have seen little more than their borders, but surely there’s no one that could match. And it isn’t just his looks—it’s his voice, the way he moves, the smell of him when he stands close to her, the _feel_ of him when he approaches her, even in a rage, and his simple words seem to _dominate_ her so completely. She can only wonder what he _tastes_ like, what he feels like beneath his robes. Thinking of it makes her want to squirm, and having him watch her makes it all the worse. She crosses her legs and makes the mistake of clenching her thighs, squeezing at herself, and her breath tightens for a moment. It would be easier if there were petals in the bath and it were scented, but instead all she has is _him_. Everything about him is alluring. She bites her bottom lip, hips shifting. She tries to concentrate on the lap of the cool water, but all her head can cry is _Thranduil_. 

Then he offers, so smoothly, “You may come closer, if you like.” His voice is gentle, intimate, a deep purr that makes her almost shiver. She breaks and looks at him, trying to gauge what he means, but he wears only the usual thin, calculated smirk. This time, she doesn’t make him clarify. She slips along the seat, moving with the current of the water to sit a quarter of the way from him instead of straight across. He lifts one dark eyebrow and murmurs, “As close as you like.” 

Her breath hitches. She realizes belatedly that moving has splashed her bra, and now it’s entirely soaked through, not that it ever covered much. Her nipples are pebbling through it, coaxed by the mix of the warm air and the cold water and hardened by her own arousal. She catches a ripple of movement beneath the water; his legs are spreading. It can’t mean what she wants it to. 

She can’t stop herself from lifting up. She wades that little bit closer, turning one leg over his, and she dares to sit on the very tip of his knee. She’s ready to spring off any moment and spill apologies, but he merely lifts his leg, forcing her to slip down his thigh. She lands in his lap, her hands falling against his chest to steady herself. She gasps instantly—he isn’t wearing anything below the water. She can feel his thick cock against her front, long and _hard_. She can’t control herself. Her hips roll forward, grinding against him, and a hoarse moan spills out of her throat, her hand lifting to her mouth to stifle it. Only a second later, his fingers are around her wrist. She can feel the power in them as he tugs her hand away, leaving her mouth free to grit against a needy whine. She was so _sure_ she never had a chance with him. Yet she can feel the proof of his desire against her. When she looks at him, the rise has made them eyelevel, and he tilts his face, pressing forward across the few sparse centimeters between them. 

His lips brush over hers, chaste but lingering. She nearly melts. Her wrist feels like fire where he’s touching her, her other hand splayed across his hard chest. Somehow, his lips are softer than she imagined. 

And when he pulls back, there can be no mistaking what they’ve done. She looks at him in confusion—she’s always felt his disapproval of Legolas even being near her, yet now he strokes his thumb across her wrist and looks at her with clear intent. A pleased smirk has twisted across his bow lips, and he murmurs, self-satisfied, “I had thought you had been watching me more than your due.” She opens her mouth to apologize—she can’t protest, as it would mean lying to her king—but he simply goes on, “It is a dangerous thing you seek, Tauriel, to hold an affair with your lord...”

She licks her lips. She was too shocked the first time to truly _taste_ him, and that only makes her long for a second kiss. She mutters again, “I know I am not worthy...”

“You are not,” he affirms. She can’t help but wince, wondering what this was all for then, but he adds, “for a relationship, perhaps. Now, idle fun...” His other hand rises from the rail to run up her shoulder, his index finger curling in the string of her bra at the top. His eyes flicker back to her, and he finishes in a husky, charming tone, “...That is another matter entirely.”

She wants to lurch forward and kiss him. If he were any other man, she would. She never hoped for anything more than ‘idle fun’—she isn’t a fool. Even if she were highborn and more beautiful, they likely wouldn’t work; their ideals are so very different. But she still _wants him_ , and she’s now sure that he can see that on her face. 

He runs his fingers down along her collarbone, eyes falling to the slope of her breasts, and he muses, “I wonder if you would truly wish to be used in that manner.” 

Without hesitation, she says, “Yes.” Her voice is practically a moan. She’s trembling against his leg, and he jostles it as he smirks, bouncing her up. She cries out, only quiet at first, but louder when he does it again. His hands fall away from her, and she wants to whimper at the loss, but she’s busy groaning over the movements of his leg. He rubs between her thighs with only that simple touch, yet the rhythm and strength of it is more than enough to torture her. She finds her hips shaking beyond her control, grinding into him, squirming to rub against his mammoth cock. She dares to look at his face, wanting him to say more—offer her more—she would gladly give herself to him in any way he wished, and it takes considerable control to stop herself from ripping her panties off and sliding onto him. She wants to _feel_ him inside her, and she’s moist for that, warm despite the water’s coldness. She never even thought of such things before, but feeling him now makes her want him to fill her up, soak her insides with his royal seed, and maybe she could give him a child as beautiful as Legolas. 

Foolish, of course. She feels ridiculous, but she can’t help herself. She runs her hands up his chest, and he doesn’t stop her. He relaxes back against the edge of the bath, his arms spreading again, while she clutches desperately at his shoulders and shakes with the effort of not kissing him and entwining her fingers in his hair. Only his leg moves, bouncing her up and down like a toy. It makes her breast jiggle, slapping the water and making it splash against him, her noises covering the sound. She wants him to _fuck her_ so badly, yet she could probably come from this alone. He looks at her in sheer amusement and maybe a thin layer of lust, and she looks at him in complete devotion. 

When she’s so wet that she can’t take it anymore, so close to the edge with her body clenching and trembling and her skin on fire, she breaks. She dives forward, tilting her head and pressing her lips against his, thrusting her tongue desperately between. To her surprise and delight, he opens for her, his own, larger tongue snaking out to trace her own, and she kisses him as hard as she can while she rubs against his cock and keens to feel it against her. When she pulls back for breath, he asks, so quiet that it could be a lover’s whisper in her ear, “Are you nearly there?”

She nods. It drags her hair through the water; she’d hardly noticed pulling it in. She pants, “Yes, my lord.” 

His smirk increases, and he orders, “Stop.”

Tauriel’s whole body freezes. She’s shaking, but she’s been trained all her life to obey this man. His hips rock against hers one more time, and then he stills. She’s breathing hard. She’s almost dizzy. But she obeys, and for that, she half expects him to tell her that she’s been a good girl. She _wants_ him to. 

Instead, his eyes flicker over her shoulder. She turns to watch. The door she came through opens, Feren slipping through. He looks at them in a split second of shock, Tauriel feeling just the same. But he schools it back quickly; he, like her, has no place judging his king. 

Looking deliberately aside, Feren asks, “Would you like anything, my lord?” Tauriel’s sure her cheeks have turned as red as her hair. She can’t look at him, either. 

Thranduil answers, “Fetch a towel for Tauriel.” Without missing a beat, Feren turns and heads for the nearest folded towel, forest-green and tucked inside a carved out hole. While he does so, Thranduil curls his finger under Tauriel’s chin, drawing her gaze to him and softly telling her, “You will need to clean yourself up and prepare yourself for your new nocturnal duties.”

She has no duties after this hour. Her brow nits together, and she asks, “My lord?” Beside her, Feren hands her a towel, his head still turned away. As soon as she takes it, he hurries off. 

The door closes behind him, and Thranduil drawls, “I prefer to first sample my paramours in the comfort of a bed.”

She doesn’t know what to say. 

But she knows that she won’t find her release here, and she craves more of Thranduil’s touch like nothing else. With that promise, she climbs out of his lap and out of the tub. She swiftly towels herself off, watching him lean back in her peripherals. He gazes idly up at the ceiling again while she scrambles into her clothes, sure that as soon as she leaves, his guards will smell her arousal. She’s already halfway over the edge. She takes one last look at him—the image will be all she needs to finish herself off. 

Once she’s reached his room, anyway. 

She bows her head and swiftly leaves, headed straight for her king’s private chambers.


End file.
